Page 49 of Unravelled
She let the silence hang, let them sit with the fact that she had moved through the highest chamber of power and come out the other side with more than information.
Brahn shook his head. “I think I’m understanding why Torvyn brought you to me.” Mira’s brow furrowed. She glanced down at the parchment still resting between them, at the list of changes Ren had already set into motion. Aid. Reinforcements. Restraint. She looked back up at Brahn.
“But… aren’t we getting what we asked for?” The words slipped out before she could temper them. Naïve. Honest. The two men stilled. Torvyn’s gaze flicked toward her, thoughtful. Brahn tilted his head, studying her like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or testing him.
“We’re getting part of what we asked for,” Brahn said at last. “The simple part.” He tapped the letter with one callused finger. “This?” he said. “This is a gesture. Good. Important. But still just a gesture.”
Mira’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a start.”
“It is a start,” Brahn agreed. “But starts don’t win wars. They delay them.”
Torvyn’s voice cut in, softer. “He’s trying, Mira. That’s a good step. But change doesn’t stick because one person sent some supplies. It sticks when the people below have the power to demand it. Again and again.”
Mira let that settle, the words turning over in her mind. She wanted to believe Ren’s orders would be enough, that this could have been the moment everything shifted. And maybe, in some small way, it still was. But looking at Brahn’s unwavering gaze, hearing the quiet certainty in Torvyn’s voice… she saw them differently.
This wasn’t doubt for doubt’s sake. It wasn’t cynicism. They weren’t asking her to stop believing in Ren. They were asking her to understand the stakes if she believed in only him.
She exhaled, low and slow. “So what now?”
Brahn’s smile curved. “Now,” he said, “You wait, while we gather support.”
He folded the parchment again with the same care someone might close a trap. “We’ll let you know when, and where, you’re needed.”
12
The sun bore down like a judgment. Mira knelt in the dry earth of the courtyard garden, sweat slipping down her spine beneath her coarse linen shift. The soil was stubborn, cracked and sun-baked, clinging to the roots she tried to coax freely. Her palms were raw, the edges of her nails dark with grit. Every breath tasted of heat and dust and crushed rosemary.
The days had turned stifling after the solstice, as if summer, sensing its own decline, was making one last, desperate display of heat. The air hung thick, pressing down on the palace like an unseen weight. Around her, others worked in silence, sleeves rolled, heads bowed. No conversation, only the scrape of metal tines and the occasional snap of a broken root.
She wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, squinting toward the courtyard wall where the shadows stretched short. The air shimmered above the stones. Her knees ached. Her shoulders burned. Still, she stayed hunched over the stubborn patch of weeds, fingers aching.
“Mira.” Perrin’s voice was always kind, but it carried across the garden with authority. Mira looked up, blinking against the light. Perrin stood just inside the archway, her hands folded, her white robes catching the sun like polished bone.
She didn’t step into the garden. She never did. As if she knew Mira needed the space more than the company. Perrin tilted her head, eyes searching Mira’s face in that calm, unreadable way that always made Mira feel like she was being gently held rather than judged.
“You’re to move to the western guest rooms,” Perrin said. “Just after midday.” Mira’s brow furrowed.
“Why?” There was a pause. Perrin studied her a moment longer.
“You’ve earned a reprieve out of the heat,” Perrin replied.
Less than an hour later, Mira roamed the western halls. Inside, at least, there was shade. The thick stone walls held the cool of earlier hours, offering a breath of relief from the sun’s relentless press outside. An unnatural quiet hung in the air of thiscorridor, compared to the rest of the palace. A kind of stillness that pressed against her ribs and made her footsteps sound too loud.
These rooms were rarely used. Set aside for visiting clerics, dignitaries, or those important enough to warrant privacy. But today, they belonged to no one. The doors stood closed, the air untouched. Mira paused before the first door before pushing it open slowly, the hinges sighing in protest.
Inside, a modest bed lay stripped of linens, a film of dust softening the corners of the furniture. The curtains hung stiff and untouched, their folds heavy with weeks of disuse. She moved without speaking, without hurrying. She tugged the curtains free and tied them back to let the light in, shook out the folded linens from the shelf by the door, and smoothed them over the mattress with practiced care. Dust danced in the sunlight as she swept the sill with a damp rag.
The second room was much the same. A half-burned candle still sat in a brass holder beside the bed, its wax warped from heat. Mira replaced it with a fresh one from the satchel Perrin had left for her.Window, sheets, basin, floor. Then the third. And the fourth. It became a rhythm, not unlike the garden, but cooler, quieter, less rooted in ache. Her muscles remembered the motions.
The sixth door was stuck when she tried to open it. Mira pushed harder, the wood groaning before it gave. The room beyond was dim, the curtains drawn, the scent of ash and worn leather was thicker here than in any of the others. And something else. Cedar...
Her breath caught as she glanced over the room. Tharion lay curled on the bed, one arm thrown over his brow, the other resting against the hilt of the blade still sheathed at his hip. His tunic was creased, his hair mussed with sleep.
This room wasn’t waiting for a visitor. It already one. This was where he’d been sleeping. Not in their rooms. Here. Mira was frozen. She just stood in the doorway, the familiar ache rising in her chest as the scent of him wrapped around her, cedar and smoke, like the remnants of a fire left burning too long. Familiar. And distant. And aching.
He stirred. His eyes opened, unfocused for a breath, and then locked onto her. He didn’t sit up. Didn’t speak right away. Only looked at her like she was the ghost in the room. Mira swallowed. Her fingers tightened around the linen bundle still pressed to her chest.
“I didn’t know you were sleeping here,” she whispered.
